he succeeded during
many years. No one could have lived a happier, fuller, or more fruitful
life than he did before he slid into loose habits. His only pastime was
the pursuit of literature, and he finished his big history of a certain
great war while he was in full practice at the Chancery Bar. Power
seemed to reside in him; fortune poured gifts on him; and he lost all.
In an incredibly short space of time he drank away his practice, his
reputation, his hopes of high honour, his last penny.

Thus it was that my historian came to beg of me for that muddy
penn'orth.

I may as well finish the Doctor's story. If I were writing fiction the
tale would be scouted as improbable, yet I am going to state plain
facts. A firm of lawyers hunted up the Doctor, and informed him that he
had succeeded to the sum of L30,000. There was no mistake about the
matter; the long years of vile degradation, the rags, the squalor, the
scorn, of men were all to disappear. The solicitors dressed the Doctor
properly and advanced him money; he set off for Ireland to make some
necessary arrangements, and he solemnly swore that he would become a
total abstainer. At Swindon he chose to break his journey, took to
drinking, and kept on for many hours. It was long since he had had such
a chance of unlimited drink, and he greedily seized it. When he went to
bed he took a bottle with him, and in the morning he was dead.
Suffocated by alcohol, they said. He had no living soul related to him,
and I believe his money went to the Crown.

I have written this last fragment on separate sheets, and my journal is
interleaved for the first time.

The Gentleman and I became very friendly. I never tried to keep him from
drinking: it was useless. When he was sober his company was pleasant,
and I was very sorry when he mysteriously migrated, and many of our crew
missed his help badly.

Some time after the Gentleman's flight, I was in a common lodging-house
in Holborn, and in the kitchen I met a delightful vagabond of a
Frenchman with whom I had a long talk. He happened to say, "One of our
old friends died last week. He was a good man, and very well bred.
Figure it to yourself, he was brother of one of your judges!" Then I
knew that the Gentleman had gone. I wish I could have seen him again. As
I look back at the old leaves of my journal I seem to see that sweet,
patient smile which he wore as he told the story of his fall. There are
some things almost too sad to be